


Midnight Munchies

by ruethereal



Category: Harry Potter - Fandom
Genre: Fluff, Food Molestation, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-06-30
Updated: 2010-06-30
Packaged: 2017-10-10 08:12:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,471
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/97546
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ruethereal/pseuds/ruethereal
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Draco Malfoy has always preferred éclairs over cream puffs.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Midnight Munchies

Draco Malfoy never has trouble sleeping, so he can’t understand why he’s prowling restlessly through the castle corridors in the middle of the night like some kind of vagrant or detention-seeking child or… Potter.  _Saint Potter_.  He scoffs to himself then decides a glass of warm milk and perhaps a chocolate éclair should put him to sleep.  Umbridge may favor him, but he can’t count on Filch to let him go should he catch Draco out of bed.  Still, he takes his time heading to the kitchens.

Draco finally reaches the giant fruit bowl portrait and tickles the pear—he hasn’t told Crabbe and Goyle the secret to entering the kitchens, those great oafs, as they'd probably never leave.  Immediately after passing through the doorway, he’s bombarded with seemingly-floating silver trays bearing pastries and sweets.  He spots an éclair on the platter by his elbow and takes it.

“You forgot to say ‘thank you.’”

Draco turns on the spot only to see none other than Harry bloody Potter removing his Invisibility Cloak.  He attempts his special sneer reserved for the Saint, but he’s too distracted by the large bite he took of the éclair.  Quite beside himself, he moans around the flaky, creamy mouthful, and receives a small smile from the Gryffindor.

“Enjoying that, are you?”

Demanding patience, Draco holds up his hand, chewing and savoring with his eyes closed before he finally swallows the bite and musters a half-sneer in answer.

“So, what brings our Slytherin Ice Prince out of bed and into the kitchens in the middle of the night?”

Not appreciating getting caught and distracted, Draco dismisses the question with a small wave.  “Same goes for you, Dumbledore’s Pet.”

The raven-haired boy shrugs, just as nonchalantly.  “Couldn’t sleep.”

They lapse into an awkward silence which both boys pass by eating pastries and avoiding each other’s eyes.  Then, Draco breaches the lull.  “Is that what the other Houses call me?  ‘Slytherin Ice Prince’?”

Potter’s face is unreadable.  “I can see why, Draco.”

Draco’s eyes widen at hearing Potter use his given name, but the other boy continues with a smirk.  “Porcelain skin, champagne-blonde hair, silvery eyes—in short, you’re beautiful.  But me, I don’t think you're a prince.  _I_ think you're more like one of these.”

He grabs a cream puff and Draco watches with mild fascination as Potter licks the powdered sugar from the pastry’s shell.  Humans with weaker constitutions than that poor baked soul would have instantly… yes, _creamed_ from the Gryffindor’s ministrations.  Draco curses his suddenly weak knees as Potter takes a nibble from the cream puff.

His voice contemplative, Potter peers at Draco from under his lashes.  “I think you're as sweet and delicate as a cream puff.”

Is Golden Boy flirting with him?  Well, two can play that game.  Draco reaches out a hand (which he grudgingly admits is bloody dainty compared to Potter’s) and takes the cream puff, making sure to brush his fingertips across the other boy’s wrist.  Grey eyes lock with green as Draco dips his tongue into the filling exposed by Potter’s bite.  Never blinking, he releases a measured moan and crows inwardly as Potter breaks his gaze to watch his turn at exhibition.

Draco discovers that darting and swirling his tongue in the cream puff is nothing like performing oral sex on a girl.  The cream puff is cold for one thing, and more palatable for another.  He decides then that he no longer wants to put his face anywhere near a girl’s crotch.  Pulling out his best moves on the brilliantly lucky pastry (a tongue bath from the Wizarding World’s boy-hero and cunnilingus from Draco Malfoy himself, after all), Draco can’t help thinking about his new rule: needless to say, boys’ crotches don’t apply.  At that thought he peeks at Potter’s lower half and snickers to himself.

Draco has always preferred éclairs over cream puffs.

Already tired of the pastry, Draco drops it on a random tray. He brings a finger to his mouth, swiping cream (which he left with great care) from his lips and sucking the tip between his lips.  Noticing Potter’s eyes still focused entirely—hungrily—on his occupied mouth, Draco takes his time feasting on the sight before him: the Boy Who Lived flushed and panting, his hands fisted at his sides, an unmistakable bulge in his jeans.

Draco withdraws his finger from his mouth with a faint pop and clears his throat.  Potter returns his gaze to Draco’s face, blinking as if momentarily stunned.

“Well, I hope you’ve had your fill, Potter,” Draco murmurs with a knowing smirk.  “I’m quite certain I’ll be able to sleep peacefully now.”

Draco nods and walks past Potter, mentally noting that a good wank fantasizing about Potter’s pink, deft tongue on the cock making his trousers uncomfortably tight will be more than adequate at putting him to sleep.  But he’s scarcely a few more steps from the portrait entrance when Potter’s voice halts his escape.

“I meant what I said.”

Draco pivots, his sneer in place; he was rather in a hurry to get to the wank he just promised himself.  “Meant _what_, Potter?”

Potter clears his throat.  When he answers, his voice is deliciously deeper.  “That I think you’re beautiful.  And that you’d be sweet to taste.”

Draco silently scolds his knees for weakening once more.  Though he still has half a mind to marvel at how his chest can no longer hold his thrumming heart, as a desperate attempt at dominance, Draco closes the gap between their bodies to mere inches with one swift stride.  Pleased to see Potter’s wide innocent eyes stirring darkly—and, at the _very_ least, an inch below his own eye level—Draco takes one of Potter’s hands in his own.

The Gryffindor’s gasp is sharp, parting his full lips for a moment before he clamps them into a firm line and a blush creeps over his cheeks.  Draco smirks in amusement rather than scorn; most people don’t expect his hands to be so warm, at odds with his cold appearance and demeanor.  He slithers his fingers under Potter’s, still curled into a fist, and pries them apart.  Kneading the calloused palm with his thumb, Draco watches the raven-haired boy visibly relax.  Lashes flutter once, twice against Potter’s cheeks before his eyes drift shut, his lips parted with quiet, heavy breaths.  Draco lifts his idle hand and presses his fingertips to the other boy’s pleasantly cool lips.  Potter’s breath is hot and damp.  Green eyes slowly reveal themselves, smoldering behind emerald.  Draco’s chest can’t possibly contain his manic heart and lungs.

Struggling to control his breath, Draco hears his own voice reduced to a growl.  “Taste me.”

Potter’s mouth stretches into a smile, and Draco bites back a moan when a tongue splits the seam of Potter’s lips and lights a searing trail up his fingers.  Potter’s lips, hand, knees are trembling against Draco.  In the split second he knows he should be wondering how and when their bodies connected from torso to thigh, he also knows that his hands are gripping Potter’s face, his lips crushed to Potter’s.  Potter’s lips open to him with the briefest nudge of his tongue and Draco gets his first taste of Potter’s sweet, molten mouth.  The taste of the cream puff they shared and the probing of tongues rip a moan from both of their throats, mixing so they don’t know whose voice is whose.

Draco doesn’t know how long they stood there, mouths working in tandem, hands tangling in hair, knees knocking together, nor whether his head is spinning from lack of oxygen or the heated kiss, but Potter pulls away first, panting into Draco’s mouth.  Draco can still taste him.  Moments pass and Draco realizes the sound of breathing is so damned loud because he’s gasping too.

Potter’s eyes are still squeezed shut, and Draco’s first reaction is to laugh.  Kissing another boy—the Boy Who Lived, no less—was nothing like kissing a swooning, giggling girl.  Draco is nearly sure he’s become partial to éclairs.  Laughing against Potter’s face, he can smell and feel his own breath hot and heavy with cream puff and _Potter_.  The other boy answers with deep-throated chuckles and finally opens his eyes, now bright and excited.  Draco releases his grip on Potter’s unruly hair, letting his arms fall to his sides, and Potter returns the favor.  Draco almost cares about the state in which the Gryffindor has left his hair, but he cares more for kissing him again.

Instead, he masters the urge and presses a quick, dry kiss to the corner of those lips still parted ever so temptingly.

“So Potter, was that sweet enough for you?”

Harry bloody Potter flashes him a wicked grin.  “As sweet as I imagined, Malfoy.  But I’m still hungry.”


End file.
